Felltree Marsh painting greys

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Komodo laughed and shook his head at her excitement over his supposed fluency in her native language. Perhaps he shouldn’t have led her astray — but she was rather cute with those widened, surprised eyes and furrowed brow. ”Non, non,” the man chuckled. That was about the extent of his foreign language skills; several words he learned and retained from passers by. Komodo was a simple man, utilizing the common tongue at almost all times. Sometimes, during his shamanic trances, he would utter pure gibberish — words inspired by the spirits of old and brought to life by his tongue. Perhaps it made sense, but he could not understand the dialect of the dead… but, he would one day know. 

Now it was his turn to be taken aback at her next statement. As far as Komodo understood, that was not the convention in these parts [or any parts, for that]. Well, the angakkuq mused, what do I know about it? The man had exited his pack the moment he was old enough to be self sufficient and did not look back. He was born of a clan of medicine men and woman, shamans who believed every soul followed their own path, so this did not necessarily go against convention. 

It was a fact that the man, now nearing the end of his fourth year, has dired a handful of litters here and there — but never stayed around long enough to see them born, nonetheless raise them. It, often, was the decision of both the mother as well as he — and to believe that Ynes was expected to conform to the standards of her family, rather than define her own destiny, was preposterous. ”I don’t believe that for a second, kitten. We take what lot life deals up, but we should carve our own paths. Seems you're doing just fine in the respect. ” He shifted, shrugging his shoulders as if doing so was an easy task [when in reality, it was the hardest thing some wolves every had to do].

”Rebellious years?” the man questioned next, interested to see if she would expand. Perhaps it was prying, but he could at least try — couldn’t he?
 

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